Eleven and Three Quarters
by Whisp
Summary: Phil takes Clint wand shopping.


The man at the counter looked up at the chime of the bell above the door and folded his hands over the counter, smiling cordially in greeting, "Philip Coulson. Good morning. I did not expect to see you again so soon. How is that new wand of yours working out? Mahogany, ten and a half inches long with the heartstring of a dragon, if I remember correctly. Well suited for duelling."

"It's just fine, sir, thank you." Phil nodded politely at the man, "And not to worry, there are no problems with the wand. I'm here for some someone else today."

"Oh?"

"Yes, my friend here needs-" Phil turned over his shoulder and jolted when he realized that Clint hadn't followed him in. Quickly, he glanced through the dusty window to the street outside and when he couldn't spot Clint, he excused himself and walked back out of the shop.

Once outside, Phil immediately spotted Clint at the next corner leaning up against the brick, his hands shoved in his pockets, and staring down at the snow covered ground.

"What on earth are you doing out here?" Phil asked, "Ollivander can't find a wand for you if you're not actually in the shop."

Clint shrugged, "I change my mind. This was a stupid idea. I like my wand the way it is."

"Right. Try pulling the other one." Phil said dryly, "Your wand is about two spells away from collapsing into a pile of dust. I'm actually afraid to watch you duel."

"So what? Why do you care so much? I thought you'd be happy. You would actually win a duel for once."

Phil puffed up in indignation. "Don't even try, Barton. I've won against every single person in our year."

"Well fifty points and a freaking gold star to Slytherin then." Clint said with a scowl, "I don't need a new wand. Especially not from your stupid old store."

Phil sighed, "I know it doesn't look like much, but Ollivanders is the best place to get a wand in all of the UK. If you want any chance of being able to perform a spell properly, you'll get a new wand from there. So quit deflecting. What's really bothering you?"

Clint still didn't move, scuffing his shoes on the packed snow, but Phil had gotten to know him well enough over the past semester to wait him out. Finally, Clint mumbled, "Did you see those prices in the window? I can't afford this shit."

Phil throws up his hands, "That's what's bothering you? Look, I said I'd pay, and I'll pay, no matter what the cost. Get inside. I'm cold."

"I don't need your charity." Clint protested.

Phil raised his eyebrows, eyes flickering down at Clint's threadbare robes, "Clearly."

Clint bristled, "Fuck you." He snarled and tried to shove past Phil, but Phil caught his arm, trying to pull him back. Clint threw off his grip roughly, and Phil backed up, hands held in the air.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean that, really. It's not charity. We had a deal and Coulsons don't back out on deals. You've been helping me, and I would like to return the favour. Getting you a new wand, it equivalent to maybe a week's allowance for me, it's a drop in the ocean."

Clint mouth twisted to the side, "Fine."

Together, they headed back to the wand shop, this time with Clint walking first, and Phil a few steps behind, determined to haul him in by length of his yellow and black scarf if needed.

The bell chimed again as they entered, and this time, Ollivander narrowed his focus on Clint and said with a smile, "Clint Barton. Yes, I've been waiting for you for quite some time, Mr Barton."

Clint paused just inside the door, "Yeah, that's not creepy at all."

Phil rolled his eyes and gave Clint a shove towards the counter, "We're here for a wand, please."

"I'm pretty sure he knows that." Clint stage whispered. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Phil, who since walking in, had put on his prefect face, standing up taller, folding his hands behind his back, and fixing a polite expression on his face.

Phil closed his eyes briefly and took a breath in, letting it out in an exasperated huff, "Shut up and put your old wand on the counter." He said primly and Clint chuckled, but did as he was told.

Immediately, Ollivander snatched it up, examining it closely enough that Clint was afraid he was going to poke out his own eye. In the small space, Clint could clearly hear Ollivander humming and muttering to himself as he worked. "Not one of mine, I should think. Cheap materials, weight is off. It was made perhaps overseas?" He raised his gaze to Clint.

Clint shrugged, but the gesture was lost on Ollivander, whose attention was already back on the wood.

The minutes stretched by as Ollivander studied the wand. He ignored the boys completely as he looked at it from every angle, rolled it across the counter, tossed it into the air, and then tested out the weight with each hand before bringing it to his nostrils and giving it a long sniff. Afterwards, he gave it a few shakes, startled, and stared at it as if it had offended him.

Bewildered, Clint glanced out the corner of his eye to see Phil looking back at him. They exchanged a small, shared smile of amusement, but remained silent.

Finally satisfied, Ollivander straightened and set the wand back on the counter. He nodded firmly, "Solid oak build, stiff, heavy, and the hair of werewolf - they're popular over there. It was hastily constructed, poorly crafted, and had no time left to cure at all. It was not meant for you, was it?"

Clint flushed a deep crimson and mumbled, "It works fine."

"Not what I asked." Ollivander called, disappearing from view. He rummaged through the rows upon rows of boxes he in the back, tossing them about in his search, his voice rising over the stacks, "It works passably - a miracle at that - but it doesn't suit you, not by far. You see, a wand chooses its owner, Mr. Barton. You can make do with an ill-suit wand, but it will never give you the same results. Now to find the right one to try, there is a process. I, myself have carefully hone it over the years, but it is not a process to be taken lightly."

There's another crash from the back, and Clint craned his neck, trying to see what was happening. Phil pressed his lips together to keep from giggling at his expression.

Ollivander lectured on, his voice rising as he became more passionate about the subject, "There are measurements involved, you see, considerations of temperament, family history, personal history, willingness of all those involved. A many multitude of factors. This process can take hours."

He appeared back before them, as quickly as he'd left, a simple wooden box held aloft with both hands. His silvery eyes fixed on Clint, "However, in your case, they are not needed at all. For you see, I've been following the prophet."

Ollivander smiled once, tightly and triumphantly, and lifted the lid of the box. Clint felt the sudden jump of his pulse in his chest. He took a slow breath in, mesmerized. The shop vanished away behind him, the ambient noises from the street quieted, and even Phil and Ollivander himself faded to the background as Clint stared at the wand in the box.

"Willow, light as a breeze, tough but pliable, eleven and three quarter inches long, and the pin feather of a Thestral." Ollivanders whispered softly, and his eyes gleamed as Clint picked it up with a trembling hand, "You, Mr. Barton, were meant to fly."


End file.
